


After the Rain

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Enemies With Benefits, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Hogwarts Eighth Year, I don't know what my deal is with that, M/M, Not Quite Friends With Benefits, Post-Hogwarts, Sex in the Damn Loo, Something... with benefits, Switching, mention of a blow job, oh alright, talking about the weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: Harry and Draco prove that they can have sex no matter the weather. Good for those blokes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 483





	After the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt, 'after the rain', given to me by magpie_fngrl. Thank you! :D

The first time they do it is during a thunderstorm. Draco almost can’t hear the hot breaths against the back of his neck when Potter slips inside him. The window they’re fucking against rattles dangerously. The whole castle vibrates as though stones are slipping against each other, ancient fault lines. Potter’s teeth scrape Draco’s neck. Though not precisely. It’s that delicate spot under his ear, and Draco comes from it, fucking into his own fist. Potter’s making rough sounds like he’s almost there, like Draco is almost enough—and then he is.

The thunder dies, carried east on the whipping wind as they pant and pull up their trousers. They can barely look at each other between the shadows of this abandoned classroom in the shelter of night. Potter leaves before Draco does, his trainers squeaking his hasty retreat. And Draco can still feel him, deep inside. Like thunder rattling his bones.

The second time, they’re drunk and Pansy’s flat is fogged in. They’re wizards, and that’s no excuse not to travel, but they pretend it is.

Pint in hand, Potter says, “Like pea soup,” as though that’s at all interesting. Then, leaning in close enough that only Draco can hear, “Fancy putting your cock in me?” And yes, that’s certainly more so.

Draco has him on Pansy’s bathroom vanity, muscular legs open, trousers hanging off a still-booted foot. 

“Quiet,” Draco says when Potter makes this delicious keening noise as Draco’s prick moves in him. Draco doesn’t really want him quiet. He wants it loud, like last year. But the fog presses close, and everything feels secret and hushed, like their breath as they get closer. 

Potter’s looking at him, into his eyes, as they do it. His leg hooks around Draco’s arse, and he whispers, “Harder.”

Draco throws his hips into it, biting his lip so he doesn’t moan at how fucking good it feels to be inside Harry Potter. 

Potter’s hand, braced on the mirror, slips and makes a soft sound. He comes, and watching Potter come on himself sets Draco off too. 

They float down from it, breathing. Draco stays long enough that he softens before he pulls out. The room is humid, thick with sex, the electric light over the sink buzzing.

Clothes righted. “I’ll see you,” Potter says before he walks out. 

“Yeah, see you.”

They’re the first words in years Draco can remember them saying to each other that didn’t hurt.

The third time is very nearly on purpose. It’s sweltering, and the city’s been suffering rolling blackouts. They meet up accidentally in a park, a nicely warded one where people go for pick-up games of Quidditch. Flying is a sweet relief from the heat, and, seeing each other across the pitch, bright with sun, they nod, meet in the middle, and agree on a match.

Potter catches the Snitch, because he would, of course. But he doesn’t gloat, just looks happy, and for once it doesn’t murder Draco’s ego. They’re breathless in that way that reminds Draco of fucking. And it seems to remind Potter too. They share a look, hot as the mid-day, and in moments they’ve dropped their brooms, left the pitch, and concealed themselves deep in the shade of the tall trees at the edge of the park, trousers rucked down just far enough that they can frot… can rub their sweaty, hard cocks together and intermittently check the path for intruders.

“You feel good,” Potter breathes.

“Yeah? You should see how I taste then.”

And Potter smiles before he drops to his knees.

The twelfth time, or thereabouts, they’ve ceased acting like it’s a one-off. They’re each looking forward to it now… whatever event they can engineer to meet up at, and, when their social circles get too quiet and they don’t have the excuse, they’ve gone so far as to Floo-call one another for a shag in-between. 

That’s what tonight is… Potter’s head stuck through Draco’s hearth with a flippant, “You busy?”

And Draco’s shrug hiding the tremendous excitement he feels. (He’s permanently changed his wards to let Potter through in the hope of just such an occasion.) “Not especially. Come on through.”

They go at it on the floor right there, all pretense at this being casual dropped. They’ve taken to having sex in the nude, because they each like the other’s body quite a lot. So when Draco rolls Potter to his back and straddles him, he gets to run his hands down Potter’s bare chest as the downpour that’s been raging for hours streaks the windows and comes slamming down in whipping sheets. 

Draco rides Potter’s cock as the wind shakes the walls. It’s been ages since he first realised that it’s Potter. That he’s some sort of out-of-control weathermancer, and it’s the sex that shifts him enough to create new weather patterns from whichever’s got stuck, to release them from whatever drought, flood, heatwave, or blizzard Potter’s gone and made.

“You really should see somebody about that,” Draco pants out after they’ve gone twice and they lie languid together on the rug.

“Yeah, I know.” Potter looks at him, their legs thrown over one another like a failed game of Twister. He smiles. “But I like the solution I’ve come up with.” He thrusts his hips a few times, all lazy, lewd beauty.

“I like it too,” Draco admits.

Potter lifts his head, looking out the window. “Rain’s died down.”

“Mm-hm,” Draco agrees, arm tossed artlessly over his head, his whole body singing with it.

“I could go again,” Potter says.

And the rain is but a drip now, the skies clearing for a riot of stars, when Draco reaches for him, and Potter comes, and they kiss like they’ve got all night and countless times left to go.


End file.
